Sonnet to the memory of miss Maria Linley

So bends beneath the storm yon balmy flow'r,

Whose spicy blossoms once perfum'd the gale;

So press'd with tears reclines yon lily pale,

Obedient to the rude and beating show'r.

Still is the LARK, that hov'ring o'er yon spray,

With jocund carol usher'd in the morn;

And mute the NIGHTINGALE, whose tender lay

Melted the feeling mind with sounds forlorn:

More sweet, MARIA, was thy plaintive strain!

That strain is o'er; but mem'ry ne'er shall fade,

When erst it cheer'd grey twilight's dreary shade,

And charm'd the sorrow-stricken soul from pain;

STILL, STILL, melodious maid, thy dulcet song

Shall breathe, immortal, on an ANGEL'S TONGUE!